“Thanks,” I said. We went in the direction she’d indicated and found a clean table with a roll of paper towels on it.
Veronique squeezed in next to me, and Grace sat across from us.
The menus came and our waiter, a light-skinned black man with hazel eyes and freckles, complimented Grace on her jean jacket before leaving to bring us water.
“Let’s see …” I found the po’boys on the menu and placed an order for two, as well as three pounds of crawfish.
Veronique lightly sipped from her water as I explained to Grace how the states in America were different, very different, and how Louisiana was pretty much nothing like Connecticut, yet we were all united under the guidelines set forth by the FCG, the Federal Corporate Government, which had a rotating cast of yearly sponsors that were allowed to showcase their logos on government documents.
A win for everyone.
“They talk different,” Grace said, starting to morph into our waiter. Her skin folded from the center point in her face, and I was just barely able to remind her of one of our cardinal rules: no shifting in public.
“Sorry,” she said as her form flickered back into place.
I glanced around; no one had seen her transform.
The food came, and the girls watched me curiously as I showed them how to eat a crawfish, which began with pulling its head off, squeezing the meat out, and working my ass off to get just a little sliver of protein.
Grace wasn’t buying it, so she stuck to the greasy po’boy and the simmering potatoes, sausage, and spice-covered corn that came with the crawfish.
“I didn’t know a human could fill themselves up on water bugs,” Grace said as I attempted to eat my weight in crawfish.
“It’s very unattractive,” Veronique added.
“It tastes better than it looks,” I said and bit into the corn.
Strip clubs. I’d only been about three times, all when I was in college at Southern Connecticut State. I had a roommate who was into making it rain – I didn’t know this was a thing, but apparently it was – and he loved cashing out a hundred-dollar bill into ones and tossing the money at the woman dancing on the pole.
I guess that’s what happens when rap videos raise our youth.
While I was definitely in a position to make it rain, our goal at the titty bar was to let Veronique feed.
We purposefully chose the shadiest looking one I could find with the lowest reviews on Yelp. I wanted something sketchy, dark, and a place where people wouldn’t go asking questions. Full Exposure fit that bill, especially with the review that read, “I was stabbed here 2x. The fact that I came back after the 1st stabbing tells you just how badass this place be. #threestrikesandyouout #Humble ”
I put on my bulletproof vest after reading that, just in case things got out of hand.
The doorman came under Grace’s spell as we approached. He was a big Mexican guy with two tear tattoos – I still needed to get me one of those … kidding! – and in a matter of seconds, his eyes flashed white.
Hell, he even let us in without taking the door tax, saving me thirty bucks. Not bad!
Like most strip clubs, Full Exposure was shadowy and cavernous, the poles and stages set up like little beacons of light to call in the creatures of the dark. A circular bar took up the center of the space, and the walls were lined with sofas for lap dances.
There were a few VIP sections, and I figured it would be best if we went there first, just to get our bearings and separate us from the masses.
The music was loud, the bass rattling my bones, and there were five or six dancers working.
The stripper on the center stage, a pale white woman with tattoos all over her thighs and ass, was bent in front of the shiny metal pole, her rear to the audience. Another, on a stage not far away, was twerking while a couple of black dudes made it rain, each of them with a stack of bills.
Twerking was awesome to watch; it stirred something primitive in me. I was distracted for a moment as the woman did her thing, dollar bills slapping against her back.
Veronique touched my arm and I glanced back at the two of them.
“Ahem, VIP,” I told Grace, which she relayed to the first waitress who approached us.
The waitress wore a New Orleans Saints T-shirt tied at the front and boy shorts. The dimples on her ass bounced as she led us to one of the VIP areas, which was demarcated by a red rope.
If you’re thinking I’ve never had VIP service before, you’re right.
I felt like a million bucks, like a Trump heir holding court over the masses below. As soon as we took our seats, a man in a black suit stepped in front of our VIP area and crossed his hands behind his back. Our protection. Shit, I almost wanted someone to try something just to see him in action.
Still, we needed to be in complete control.
“Take his mind just in case,” I whispered to Grace.
She nodded, approached the man, and placed her hand on his arm.
That was all it took.
We now had our very own beefy, shaved-head security guard.
Not two minutes later, the waitress returned with a bottle of vodka, courtesy of a man sitting alone in another VIP area.
“Is he drunk?” I asked Grace as she looked over at him. He wore a leather vest, a leather hat with silver buckles on it, and had an unlit cigar in his mouth.
“No, but there is something else wrong with him.”
“Something else?”
The flashing lights, darkness, and abundance of naked women only reminded me of just how odd a strip club was. What would it be like with the lights up? What would it be like without the music?
Grace nodded. “He is another kind of drunk.”
“Drugs.”
Veronique didn’t quite lick her lips, but she did look around with hunger in her eyes. “When can I begin?”
“We have to make sure the person isn’t drunk, which is a mistake on my part, because it’s a damn strip club and everyone’s drunk.” I thought for a moment as Grace opened the bottle of vodka.
“You’re not going to like that,” I told her.
“It’s for you,” she said with a smile as she poured a glass.
She handed it to me, and out of courtesy, I cheersed the man who’d bought us the bottle. Please don’t come over, please don’t come over, I thought as I returned my attention to Veronique.
She wasn’t at all fazed by the strip club. Grace, on the other hand, looked around with excitement and curiosity on her face.
Remember, no shifting, I thought to her.
I know, Writer Gideon, I’m getting ideas for later.
“Later?” I mouthed as she locked eyes with me.
Need I exaggerate?
If ever there was a time to take a shot, it was to that last statement. I finished the shot, wincing as it burned its way down my throat.
A strip club was a bad idea.
I knew it after Grace couldn’t locate anyone who wasn’t intoxicated in some way. I knew it when the cigar man who bought us the bottle invited himself over to our table.
“We’ll have better luck just walking around outside,” I told Veronique, who eyed the drugged out man with malicious intent. As he spoke, his words tumbling out of his mouth and quickly being consumed by the loud bass, Veronique moved closer to him.
“Grace,” I started to say, but the shifter was watching a pregnant lady dance on the center stage.
Did not expect to see that, I thought.
“We need to go,” I said, getting to my feet. The last thing I needed was Veronique on whatever that guy was on.
She had already placed her hand on his arm but quickly let go. “Fine,” she said and stood as well.
“You can feed soon,” I told her. “Let’s just look for something outside.”
Chapter Seven: Surprise Visit
“Have everyone return to their food and drinks,” I told Grace as we entered the McStarbucks near our borrowed abode. It was the first thought that came to
mind, and yes, it was devious, but Veronique needed to feed, and what better place than America’s favorite restaurant coffee peddler to find people? “I don’t want anyone to know we were here.”
I glanced at the ceiling and found a few small, spherical cameras. “Veronique?”
She followed my gaze, and the metal inside each camera was stripped from its socket, disabling any chance for us to be on film.
Aside from when we entered …
The vodka definitely had me feeling a little more daring than normal.
I told Grace to find five people who weren’t intoxicated and tell them to sit against the wall. Five people stood, walked to the wall, and sat, the expressions on their faces completely blank.
“Thank you,” Veronique said as she approached.
She didn’t kill them, but similar to someone donating too much blood, the people didn’t look very good after she finished. Their skin had shriveled up and tightened, their eyes had sunk into their faces, and veins had appeared on their arms and legs.
The last person Veronique stepped in front of twitched, her throat tightening convulsively. For a brief second, I thought the woman knew, but the look of realization was gone in a flash.
Innocent bystanders, I told myself.
Veronique needs to feed, Grace reminded me. They’ll be okay.
I shook my head as the rest of the people in the restaurant sat or stood without moving a muscle, almost as if Grace had frozen time.
Focus on the good things, a voice said in my head. Grace’s thoughts or mine? Who knew?
So I did what anyone in a depraved situation should do. I waited until we were out of the McStarbucks and switched my thought pattern.
Manually.
Think of something else.
I was expecting to get a good night’s sleep, after a little one-on-one time with Grace. She’d already hinted at that. At least there was something to look forward to, something to wash the gruesome McStarbucks scene out of my head.
When in doubt, think about sex.
I settled into my seat, started up the car, and drove away, confident that I could get us home despite being a little drunk.
Something flashed in the rearview mirror.
Dorian Gray was sitting in the back seat next to Veronique.
“Shit!” I said as Dorian quickly drew a small sphere of purple energy and disappeared.
The sphere exploded. I swerved into a street lamp, the airbag deploying instantly.
My world became a series of red flashes and traumatic vignettes of my own death. My face was powdered by the airbag. I touched the back of my head; it was sticky with blood from the minor explosion.
What the …
The Nissan’s lights were flashing, the horn was blaring, an exclamation point on the dash was blinking and doing somersaults.
I sucked in a breath of air.
Grace’s hands were pressed around my face.
“Gideon!” She yelled, or better, she mouthed, as my ears were still ringing from the explosion. Once she saw I wasn’t responding, she kicked open her door and came around to my side to help me out.
“Where …?” I started to ask.
I saw the blood in Grace’s hair and choked up.
I’m fine, stay with me!
The door opened, and I stumbled to the ground, nearly cracking my head on the pavement. I pushed myself up to find Grace standing near me on high alert.
“Where’s Veronique?” I said, dizzy as I looked left and right.
I heard metal tear from the Nissan and knew Veronique wasn’t far away.
The metal surrounded us, forming a protective barrier comprised of bolts, lug nuts, and other assorted tidbits stripped from the vicinity, including the panels of a mailbox and a couple of aluminum cans.
Dorian stood on top of a nearby parked car, her paintbrush moving from her mouth to the open air as she drew an eight-foot-tall muscled man with gun arms. She was in similar clothing to what she had on yesterday, almost gothic attire with fishnet stockings and a pair of converse this time.
As soon as her creation was set, the man began firing spherical bolts of purple energy at Veronique, who dodged to avoid them and came back with a sea of metal to prevent the next blast. She then tore the roof off the car that Dorian stood on, but Dorian was long gone by that point.
“Come on,” Grace said, pulling me to the sidewalk. We were in a residential district, only a few blocks from our makeshift home. There must have been people watching, but I was too focused on where Dorian would appear next to notice them.
“Hide,” Grace hissed.
“But …”
“You’re injured.”
“So are you …” I said, moving my fingers through her matted hair.
We locked eyes, and I obeyed her immediately.
I won’t let pain come to you, she whispered in my head.
Dorian reappeared across the street.
Veronique hurled as much metal as she could, but Dorian was already gone again. The metal hit a car, broke its windows, blew out its tires, and set off its alarm, adding to the cacophony of noise already blaring around us.
We would draw attention soon if we weren’t already, but it was impossible for me to act; Grace had control over my mind and my body, and all I could do was watch as the psychic quietly approached the center of the conflict.
And by the center of the conflict, I meant the middle of the street, where Veronique stood. Grace was poised, ready to use her powers at a moment’s notice, her chest heaving as she sucked in air.
Veronique kept turning, looking for Dorian, red energy moving up and down her fingertips.
Suddenly, a ghost-like energy creation ballooned into existence and charged at Grace. Taking a play from Veronique’s book, Grace used her power to pull the doors off our broken car and fling them at the energy creature. Mini explosions erupted, and metal melted with fiery hisses. I was still trying to make sense of it all.
With the flick of her wrist, Veronique pulled more paneling from a vehicle on the side of the street and threw it in the direction of the creature. The mixture of iron, aluminum, copper, and steel hit the energy being in the side, pieces of the metal passing through it as they sparked, disintegrated, and exploded.
Grace let go of her hold over my psyche as she moved to toss something else at the being.
Dorian appeared right next to me, her form fizzling into existence.
My reaction was instant.
I pulled my fist back and punched her in the face, throwing her sideways as her paintbrush fell to the sidewalk.
I hit a girl.
Not my style, nothing I’d ever done before, and even though she was trying to kill us, I felt guilty as hell. I’d hit her good too, knocking her out with my fist, a fist that now pulsed with pain, a fist that had never struck another human being until now.
I shook my sore hand out as Veronique walked over to me, a sly grin on her face as if my balls had finally dropped and I could now join the hunt. She knelt and placed her hand on Dorian’s forehead, her fingers flashing red as she drained the woman’s energy.
“I can’t believe …”
“You saved us a lot of bullshit,” Veronique said, looking up at me. She seemed neither impressed nor disappointed.
“Are you okay?” Grace asked, moving to my side.
“I … It’s not like me to do something like that, I just reacted. I … I’m …” I rubbed my knuckles.
She smirked as she read my thoughts. “Stop panicking; you did what you had to do to help us.”
“Don’t kill her,” I told Veronique.
“Are you suggesting we take her with us?” She removed her hand from Dorian’s forehead. The punk rock diva’s skin had already started to dry, and even in the meager light of the streetlamps, I could tell that her eyes were beginning to sink into her skull.
“We have to try to do something for her. She was only following orders. Maybe we can even find out more if we don’t kill her.”
I exchanged glances with Grace. “But we need to go, now.”
“As you wish,” Veronique said and stood up. “But I’m not going to make the same mistake I did with Grace. I will feed from Dorian every couple of hours until we’re ready to sort the situation out.”
I bent down, placing my fingers on Dorian’s neck to find a pulse. Her skin was hot to the touch, almost as if she was overheating. She’s still alive, I thought as my hand instinctively went to her neck port.
“Let’s find a vehicle,” I told them. “We’ll go back to the house, get our things, and get out of here – just in case there are others around as well.”
“Don’t forget her paintbrush,” Grace said as I lifted Dorian into my arms.
Not able to get a firm grip on the unconscious woman because her body kept slipping down, I eventually flung her over my shoulder and carried her that way. “Is it a good idea to give that to her?” I grunted.
“I wasn’t going to give it to her; I was going to see what we could discover about it.”
“Got it, do that. But let’s keep it away from her. I don’t know what her powers are without that thing, but I don’t want her to wake up and be able to use it.”
Chapter Eight: Put Her in the Trunk and Drive to Texas
We took the first car we could find, which was some type of Kia four-door sedan with a pretty large trunk. It was a weird off-purple color, maybe light plum, and the interior reeked of coconut lotion. But it would do.
I was still slightly delirious, the back of my head still wet with blood. Once we got back to our hideout, Grace checked it out and told me it was just an abrasion.
Fuck, was I glad to hear that.
As the ladies packed our bags and checked to make sure we hadn’t left anything behind, I got cleaned up in the bathroom and applied some rubbing alcohol to the wound.
It stung, but it was a good, healing sting that woke my ass up. I was still a little jumpy, but I was better than I had been just fifteen minutes ago.
Back outside, I found the two women moving Dorian to the trunk, her hands and feet bound tightly with coat hangers. We wouldn’t be able to keep her in there forever, but that was where she was going until we got to Texas.
Cherry Blossom Girls Box Set Page 24
